Because we're hungry and lazy...

Since our tongues are hanging out and our brains can only focus on turkey and all the trimmings right now, here are some ol' pics we've posted on (or at least near) Thanksgiving since 2011. Enjoy our old pictures as a reminder of our laziness, and don't forget to say grace and, if possible, donate your time today. Not to lecture, just a reminder. We'll be back "on it" on Monday...same as you. Happy Thanksgiving!

Hot Chocolate and a Walk Around the Block

“There are no wrong turnings. Only paths we had not known we were meant to walk.” — Guy Gavriel Kay, Tigana

Once, a friend and I had jumped into my Jeep at the last minute, hoping to make the Black Maria Film Festival in Charlottesville. We had almost exactly an hour between the time my friend's class ended and the time the showing we wanted to make began. We were so confident that we could make it. After all, we had started off in Richmond, so it couldn't take us that long to get there. The whole ride, both of us were talking like a pair of parakeets. We had the music blasting and we kept laughing. We were having such a great conversation that we didn't notice that we were still on 95 until we were all the way in Thornburg! By then it was much too late to get onto 64 and head to Charlottesville, so we continued to Fredericksburg, where we popped into a coffee shop and walked around historic downtown until it was time to go home. I wouldn't change that night for anything. -Anon fairy punk

Please lose the game of gentrification…please

Once upon a time there was a neighborhood in Washington, D.C. called Anacostia and many white, upper-middle class people who had never set foot there were terrified of it because black people called it home. Oh, wait. That neighborhood still exists and this same demographic is still scared of something they don’t know or understand. On October 23rd, <Urbane/> published a satirical map called, “Washington, D.C. Neighborhoods Revealed: Beyond Politics,” and labeled all of Southeast the “zone of perceived danger” as a jab at these uptight, ignorant ninnies. As you’ll note from the reader comments on the post, many people misinterpreted the map, thinking the joke was on Southeast. Really, the joke was on people who only perceived Southeast as being one way instead of actually making an effort to become familiar with the area. Online and offline, the joke is on anyone who casts judgments on Anacostia and sees it as a wasteland with no potential. I would be foolish to say that Anacostia is not without its problems (read City Data’s stats on the neighborhood), but I would be equally foolish to say it has no redeeming value.

Back in January, I wrote a piece called, “Anacostia—the next H Street? Try Old Town,” which was later referenced by Vol. 1 Brooklyn, as a suggestion for how the city, community, and developers might consider changing Anacostia for the better while still maintaining its cultural and historical integrity. I never once said—and hope I never implied—that Anacostia needs a Starbucks or any of the other trappings of gentrification. Not anything against Starbucks per se, but putting one up isn’t necessarily going to improve a neighborhood’s socio-cultural identity and self-esteem. And since I’m on this note, why don’t talk about what else Anacostia doesn’t need? For starters, here are three things:1. Fancy condos that lead to displacement: The healthiest communities are mixed income communities. I am fine with people of means moving to Anacostia if it means that the neighborhood’s current residents will still have a home. People should not be forced to move just because Mr. Deep Pockets decided he and all his friends wanted Victorians with wrap-around porches and river views. If Mr. Deep Pockets would like to buy one of the abandoned homes, treat his new neighbors with courtesy and respect, and also donate money to a nearby school, community center, or shelter, let’s throw down the doormat for his shiny shoes and maybe even a potluck in his honor.

2. Charter school after charter school: C’mon, D.C. Start by improving standard neighborhood schools before you even consider bringing in expensive models that only serve a small percentage of local students. Parents should not have to play the lottery to ensure their kids get a decent education. Not all children perform well on the kinds of standardized tests and interviews charter schools normally hold to determine who get a golden ticket.

3. Sparkly, luxury supermarkets: Right now, grocery options are limited in Anacostia. There’s not a true supermarket in all the neighborhood. But that doesn’t mean everyone’s hankering for a Whole Foods. How about a Safeway, Kroger, or Food Lion? Some place people can go to choose nutritious food at reasonable prices from a relatively varied selection.Let’s get this list rolling! What are other things Anacostia doesn’t need?

I Was Born with a Stage Name

"So, do you like to get down and/or do you know what that smell is?” the boy in my tenth grade science class asked, with a slight flicker of humor across his face. I sighed inwardly. I had known what was coming. I had just told him my full name. Faylani Rae Funk. This boy and I had been in the same classes for over a year, but he only knew me by my nickname, Fay. That was intentional. I could tell the moment I met him what he would do when he heard my name: make a bad joke about it. Years of experience backed up my prediction. It’s the kind of thing you learn fast if you have a weird name. I was born with a stage name, given to me by a mother who insisted on giving both of her daughters creative names that no one else in had. My name has two sources: the first is the 1988 winner of the Miss America Pageant, Kaye Lani Rae Rafko. For reasons I’ll never understand, my mom loves beauty pageants, and she thought Kaye Lani was the most beautiful name she had ever heard. But she also wanted alliteration in my name, and with a last name of Funk that meant she needed an F. That’s where the second source of my name comes from: 1930's star of King Kong, actress Fay Wray. Fay gave my mom the alliteration she desired, and Wray fit poetically with the original inspiration for my name. So I became Faylani Rae. Funk is a Dutch last name. My father is of Dutch-Irish descent. Like my sister and I, he endured plenty of jokes growing up. As a young man he almost changed his last name to Townshend, as in Pete Townshend from The Who. Perhaps realizing that changing his last name to that of a famous rock star’s would not stop the music jokes, he didn’t go through with it. Anyone with an unusual name hears a lot of jokes. The frequent joking made me realize I had an unusual name in the first place, and is the first thing that comes to mind when anyone asks me about my name. The jokes about my name are mostly musical. References to Parliament/Funkadelic and James Brown are common, though the most obnoxious comes courtesy of Michael Jackson and Vincent Price. People will ask me, with a wicked glint in their eyes, if I know anything about “the funk of forty thousand years,” a line from the song “Thriller,” referring to the smell of a recently opened crypt. It was the same reference the boy from my science class was making and one that I didn’t get, having fastidiously avoided ever listening to anything from the album Thriller until Michael Jackson was dead. I recall a girl from my high school being absolutely shocked when I didn’t recognize “Billie Jean” playing on the radio. I chose not to explain why; I knew she was a joker, and I wasn’t about to give her any ammo. I can see the humor in my name, and made right I can sometimes find the jokes funny. I will always cringe a little when I hear that line from “Thriller” though. Jokes are harmless, whether funny or irritating. But my weird name can affect people’s perception of me. I have the kind of name a flamboyant entertainer would choose for madcap performances. Many people assume I just made it up. It doesn’t help that I play bass guitar. Had I chosen my name it would be the clumsiest, most ham-handed stage name of all time, calling myself after the genre of music for which my instrument is most known. It’s easy to think I must be a contrived attention-seeker. That’s what happened when I received my roommate assignment for college. I had two roommates, and excitedly sent Facebook friend requests to both of them. One did not respond right away, and seemed reserved at first. I learned later that she received my Facebook request long before the official housing letter from NYU. My name plus a profile picture of me playing bass led her to believe I was the kind of jerk who insists on going by a stage name in my daily life. She spent a few weeks afraid that she was going be living with an insufferable idiot for her first year of college, until the official letter arrived and she saw it was my real name. She’s one of my best friends now and I think it’s funny that she was so concerned, but it makes me wonder—have other people thought that about me?

Jewelry for Your Words

If you could rename Black Friday—a bizarre & uniquely American cultural phenomenon—what would you call it? Tell us here and you could win these fairy earrings designed by Red Lintu—one for you and one for a friend! Just comment on this post and like Quail Bell Magazine on Facebook for a chance to win! Winner will be announced December 1st. Please share this post, and happy holidays!

The Great Escape

I spent some time at the overlook, in a sunbeam, on a hill on the grass with a friend, looking up at the sky, at the James River digging the last of the autumn leaves. Saying good-bye.I'm trying to think of what I wont miss. VCU campus traffic may be it. No one knows what to do when, everyone has a, “I do what I want” attitude, and when on my bike, not a day goes by that I either want to kill someone or almost get killed by someone. But, yeah, no, there really ain't much to not love about Richmond, Virginia.There are many reasons one moves somewhere else I guess. I moved to Richmond for new opportunities and for the vibrant culture. I had been visiting for years. I loved the wild bohemian vibe of RVA. There was always too much to do: rad house shows, bicycle gang events, art exhibitions, ridiculous dance parties, sweet diners and cafés and bars, and meeting so many fun people.

In 2007, I signed the lease and moved into a house in Oregon Hill proper with a group of friends from Danville. Those first years at the Red Love House were mad! So much fun was had raging all over the city, so many laughs at that house, and so many memories of our porch couch and all the antics and adventures we shared. I especially adored Oregon Hill, my shabby-chic neighborhood in the heart of the city, I could walk to the river or to the cemetery or downtown or to campus in no time and could bike almost anywhere else in 10 or 20 minutes. Life here is easy.One of those easy-living staples is the $100 room. There are always those cheap-rent houses in Richmond with sinks full of dishes, hallways spilling over with bikes, every room rented out as a bedroom. Most of these houses have a $100 room—a shed, or a spot under the stairs, or a closet. I am sitting in my closet room now, the walls are bare and a few boxes contain all the stuff I'm taking with me. In a week I am heading home to Danville for Thanksgiving. I am not coming back to Richmond.I am not coming back to this city full of friends. Not going to anymore Totally Tight Monday Nights, no more epic doom shows at Strange Matter, or chill folk Sunday nights at Helen's. So long Belle Isle, Byrd Theatre, The Fan. Adios to the awesome life I have made here, The Rear Gallery, a very active film career and a budding art career. I am moving y'all, to New Mexico.My mentor and I have been talking about Taos for about 8 years now. He has a friend there and could possibly hook me up with a job. I was very interested as I was 30 and had never lived anywhere but Danville. My yearning for experience had me restless and it had always been a dream of mine to move to a place where I didn't know a soul and just make it work. It was just a dream, running off to some other place. I mean, at the time, we were actually at the peak of an exciting art and culture scene in Danville. I was at the top of my game working at the Danville Museum, working at the North Theatre, publishing a 'zine. There were bands and artists in this weird nowhere town really making it an awesome place to be. A couple years later though, it started to fade as many of the young people part of the scene went off to school. I stuck around until I had to flee like a cultural refugee to Richmond.And so here I am now, 38. I just had the best year of my life. I am feeling good about my art, I am working constantly in film, and I am surrounded by great friends. And I am moving. When I was offered the opportunity in Taos, I didn't think, I just jumped on it. Totally excited for new adventures, new life experiences, facing new challenges and meeting new people. Yeah, let's do this! But then I started packing. Getting rid of things and selling stuff at my house and my studio. I started thinking about how I won't see my friends all the time. Who will I go to brunch with? Who is gonna bike with me to the show? Will I only know my Richmond friends through Facebook posts? “Why am I doing this?” I wondered.

So I began researching Taos online. Oh wow! Yes, it seems like that chill Shangri-la, artist-centic sacred native medicine land that I remembered hearing of. But, oh shit, they don't have metal shows?! Oh crap. And back and forth. A week away from leaving Richmond, I am ready. I want it. It is time to take a leap, to go for it, to go somewhere I don't know a soul and just make it work. Life is for living. I have not always succeeded in all I do, but never for a lack of trying. I will try this ride out and see where it goes. Risks are good entertainment. And so, here I go like the fool off the cliff...

Happy Friday!

Dear fledglings,

Believe it or not, we only have one thing to say right now: This weekend, be a happy hedgehog! Life is short—especially for a small animal like a hedgehog—so you might as well live it up. You know what we mean, too. Cross everything off your reading list before it's too late.

Not the town of berry mutants—and see this soprano!

The Barns of Rose Hill are located in Berryville, Virginia—the seat of Clarke County, one of the smallest counties in the state—and this spot is quite a popular performing arts venue. What makes it a little offbeat? The venue's made up of two dairy barns donated to the Town of Berryville in 1964. Since 2004, the mission of the venue has been to create a space that celebrates life, the arts, and culture—all good things indeed. The venue not only enhances the quality of life for the community of Berryville, but also the lives of its visitors. The owners of the venue hope that the events held here will educate the visitors and patrons in meaningful ways.

On November 30th, the Barnes of Rose Hill welcomes sopranoMariana Mihai-Zoete in her performance of "Lucky 13," where she'll sing pieces from 1613, 1713, 1813, and 1913 A full and complete list of the events at the Barns can be found on BarnsofRoseHill.org.

Jack + Morbidity

Hey, whaddya know? It's the anniversary of JFK's assassination, in case you haven't listened to the radio, watched TV, or looked on the Internet for the past two months. Why don't you download this pic of the 35th president, pop it into Photoshop, commemorate (or even depict) his death in some way? A caisson, X's in his eyes, a halo over his head, Jackie crying in the background—take your pick and write a poem. Then do something with it. Just don't ask me what. Although if you really have to ask, I'd say make a Day of the Dead shrine and leave a little offering to Jack.

An Obvious Progression

I can remember it as though it were just a few months ago. There I was in Richmond, Virginia's Canal Club getting ready to screen my first film to over 200 people at the now legendary program known as Flicker in 2003. I had been encouraged by Flicker host James Parrish to shoot a short film.

I had been a photographer since the 80's, but not until then did I ever think of tackling the concept of the “moving image." I had edited together a short film that ran nearly nine minutes long. Shot on good old-fashioned Super 8 film on an old Kodak Instamatic M12 from 1967. It was an experiment. The results I got kind of bored me, so I decided to do an old exercise we used to do in first year photography class. This was manipulating the film emulsion with chemicals. My chemical of choice? Bleach water.

I mixed some up in an empty bottle of hairspray. Then I stretched the Super 8 footage I had shot across a lightbox. I sprayed the bleach water on the emulsion side and watched the action happen. The images broke down within seconds. When I wanted to stop the process I simply wiped the film dry. Next, while the film was still wet, I stained the emulsion with iodine. I had no idea what the result was going to be but when I threaded that film into the projector to watch the results I was delightfully surprised. I saw the images that I had recorded and dismissed as boring take on a new life. The images were now gloriously deteriorated with an upside-down red rain effect going through them. All praise happy accidents. That film I titled, Emotional Juxtaposition.

The night of the screening, I was petrified and sweating bullets until I heard the applause. People approached me after the program wanting to know how I did it. I had found a new medium to express myself. That was ten years ago. I am now planning my ninth film.